


if invisible lines lead your way back to me, walk the line

by cptshellhead



Category: Marvel, Marvel's Avengers (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Spoilers, Temporary Character Death, he's trying his best!!!!, look it's just tony having a bit of a rough time so give him a damn break ok, lots of pining from tony tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptshellhead/pseuds/cptshellhead
Summary: Though, it seems, life has a funny way of telling him to pull his head out of his fucking ass, because just as he's come out of his RV with his shoddy beer and sausages on the grill, Bruce and some kid are at his doorstep telling him that there's a possibility to figure it all out, to truly unravel the mystery of Steve's death; and, come to think of it, that seems to be one of the fattest, most irritating mysteries he's been unable to solve, or fix—and he's supposed to be the guy who fixes everything—because as far as they've all been aware, Steve is dead. Nothing to prove that it's the truth, but nothing to prove that it's a lie, either.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 75





	if invisible lines lead your way back to me, walk the line

**Author's Note:**

> i'mma be real. i wrote this all in a day and got interrupted at least four times but i was determined to finish it while i had the motivation to. enjoy the boys being dumbasses. title is from eden's isohel.

It'd been a day they'd been long expecting.

The reveal of the new San Francisco headquarters had been in development for years prior; if the Avengers wanted to take care of threats nationwide and even beyond, they needed to start dividing up their headquarters. With the east taken care of in New York, the logical choice for the west had been San Francisco. Soon enough, they'd be expanding into the north and south as well, but it seemed that optimistic visions became tragedy instead.

When the night is still and quiet with crickets chirping like white noise of infomercials on the television at three in the ungodly morning, Tony's mind frequents the same ill-fated day of their falling. His fall, in particular, too. It's difficult not to.

He's come to realize that much of life is all about memories—the good and the bad—no matter where you are in life. And for him, most of the memories he's sifting through while slouched in his more often that not, uncomfortable chair, with a paper cup full of beer he would much rather throw out but _can't_ (it's the only drink he's got, aside from water), have been reminding him about all that he's lost.

They say that you don't know what you've got until you've lost it all.

Or something like that, anyway. Tony can't, for the life of him, bother to find the right words or the right phrase or saying. His mind is muddled with old thoughts, new ones, everything in between. He sweats it out in the Nevada sun in the morning when he finds himself teetering the thirty-sixth hour of no sleep, staring a hole into one of the eight doors of the family estate that's full of dust and holes and memories he can't quite place beyond the fact that it is, now, one of the last things under his own name. A shame that Golden Acres isn't so golden these days.

When the sun sets and the blazing heat begins to dissipate into an uncomfortable humid air that feels like there's tension floating around him everywhere he goes, he thinks that maybe, _just maybe_ , he'll get used to it. An odd thought to cross his mind, but he supposes that he just _has_ to move on. That at some point, his brain may let it all go, that he'll grow comfortable with this somewhat quiet life he's had to make for himself, even if he drinks his way into the grave.

Maybe it won't be so bad, after all.

Though, it seems, life has a funny way of telling him to pull his head out of his fucking ass, because just as he's come out of his RV with his shoddy beer and sausages on the grill, Bruce and some kid are at his doorstep telling him that there's a possibility to figure it all out, to truly unravel the mystery of Steve's death; and, come to think of it, that seems to be one of the fattest, most irritating mysteries he's been unable to solve, or fix—and he's supposed to be the guy who fixes _everything_ —because as far as they've all been aware, Steve is _dead._ Nothing to prove that it's the truth, but nothing to prove that it's a lie, either.

One of the last secrets he has kept under lock and key is the mail he types up every first Monday morning of the month at five. _In the morning._ The memory that this would be the hour when Steve would be up, leaving for his run, is what settles deep in the crevices of each wire connecting to and from his heart. One would think he's got a flaw in his code.

There's nothing truly more fitting than Tony clinging onto the little things these days. He's hanging on by a goddamn fucking thread that's running out of its elasticity. Every last email he's sent to Steve's email address, only for it to bounce back, is a reminder that maybe that he _can't_ let go of this. Of him. That he can't find peace in this kind of silence, surrounded by nothing aside from his own thoughts. He's been typing all those words out because there's no one else to talk to. This, at least, simulates like he's talking to a long forgotten pen pal. Except, of course, he's not forgotten at all.

It's impossible to tell if it's the devil or the saint on his shoulder telling him that he needs to look at this so-called recovered security footage. When he _does_ watch it…when he realizes there's much more to the story, the rage within him begins to simmer. _He's alive._ Some part of him is convinced of this, even though the rather incriminating evidence against Tarleton would otherwise point toward his death. He truly is clinging onto whatever's left of Steve's essence in this world. If not for the present company of Kamala and Bruce, he would be lashing out in some way, tears or anger or just silent fuming, but it's enough to reignite the need to delve into this some more. _It's what Steve would have wanted,_ he thinks, for him to get back onto his feet and find his footing, to—

That's when the messages pop up on his screen from _Tiny Dancer._

Seconds after Kamala begins to panic about AIM being up their ass, Tony realizes it's time to dig up even more parts of the past he's not quite let go of.

—

Fixing up the Chimera feels like old times. _Almost._ It's close enough, for now. Despite the reluctancy and the—ah— _tension_ between himself and Bruce, it's almost bittersweet to walk the familiar hallways. Its lost the charm that it once had, but he's certain a little polishing would give it some life. And JARVIS?

_JARVIS! Missed you, pal._

Tony is uncertain of the path he's walking down. He's usually always chosen to do things intentionally—or not, really, he's been reckless and impulsive way too many times to count—or for particular reasons in mind, but this time? He doesn't know exactly what he's doing. All he knows is that AIM isn't what it presents itself to be, and if there's any inkling of the desire to serve justice, it's the time to do it now.

Now or never, right?

The thing is, as much as things have _changed_ on the Chimera, the old-age catching up to her after being decommissioned, there are things that haven't changed much. The second he steps into his room, all dust-covered and a mess— _lived-in_ , he says— he finds his gaze falling on the dark jacket that hangs on the wall.

_Steve's jacket._

God, he forgot about this jacket. It's odd to think about, and every part of him just _gravitates toward it_ without second thought. Hands that have always been so steady now shake, nimble yet roughened fingers from decades of disregarding safety measures occasionally— _and_ accidents, to be fair—begin to trace over the dark and dated leather jacket that's been collecting dust. _Old man,_ Tony muses, without even knowing he's smiling to himself. Almost immediately there's the burn of tears in his eyes. His jaw clenches tight, and he closes his eyes for a solid minute, standing there with fingers that are now gripping the shoulder seam of the leather jacket. _Why can't you just come h—_

The sound of the door behind him sliding open draws himself back to real life, and he inhales a deep breath and blinks away the wetness in his eyes—or so he attempts to—before swiping his hands together. "Holy cow is it dusty in here," Tony says, then, before turning around to see Kamala at the doorway. "Did you knock?"

"Uh, yeah, did you not hear the very apparent knocking to the rhythm of _Back in Black_ , or...?"

"Guess not."

"Right. Sure. Hey— _uh_ —are you alright?"

He blinks, face contorting into what's supposed to be faux confusion. His brows draw together ever so slightly and his eyes narrow. "Just peachy. Dust got into my eyes, is all." Always the master of disguise and defense, that Tony Stark. "What's up, kid? Need something?"

Kamala stalls for a second in silence, but he's not sure if she's unconvinced or just trying to remember what was asked of her. "Yup, uh...oh! Bruce just wanted to talk to you real quick about something JARVIS picked up. And…um… _cool room!_ "

Well, the kid's charming, Tony'll give her that.

And several other good traits. Determined. Kind. Strong. Plenty of terms to describe the kind of gentleness and resilience he wishes he had. Now, or when he was at her age. God knows he got up to absolute nonsense in his day.

He manages to smile. "Thanks. You're the first to say that. And tell him I'll be there in a minute."

When she nods and leaves, the door sliding closed behind her, he turns back to glance at the jacket, exhaling one rather deep breath. "Christ, embarrassing me even when you're God knows where. I'm a mess, Cap."

A pause.

"Fifty bucks—actually, five… _cents_ , 'cause I'm like, pretty broke now—that you're not surprised I'm a mess."

He'll clean up the dust later.

—

It is… _unusual._ Everyone is here, SHIELD getting back on its own feet under Hill's guidance, and yet—

There's more light at the end of the tunnel now, but he's still _not sure_ where he's going with this. Is this the reemergence of the Avengers officially? Is this a one-time thing? Tony doesn't know, and he's almost _afraid_ to know. He wants it to be real and permanent, but the thing is that nothing is _permanent._ Everything goes away eventually.

(He always did think he'd have more time with Steve. An always or a forever or—no, he'd just been foolishly optimistic.

The kind of boyish pining, the kind of tragedy that follows in the wake of what seems to be perfect. _Romance_ , nipped at the bud before anything could grow.)

He _isn't_ surprised when things begin falling apart. As the past has clearly shown, nothing lasts. This time, it just happens to blow up in their faces sooner rather than later. He presses Bruce's buttons as Thor and Nat walk off in frustration. A ticking time bomb, the lot of them, despite working together seamlessly otherwise. Much of what they do is done, but rarely do they speak in the way that'll clear the air from all the _unspoken_ things. Tony is to blame, too, but he's never been good at this, and he's not sure he ever will. If Howard taught him anything—bastard that he was—it was to keep his emotions in check, because _Stark men are made of iron._

—

Just because something ends, doesn't mean it can't start again. A rather rousing speech from the kid. Get their spirits in check. Unfortunately—or fortunately— is every time he comes out of his room, he's greeted with the room across from his. Steve's room. He wants to go in—he could—except he feels like it'd be a breach of privacy in some manner. Steve would say he should _knock_ because Tony, _sometimes_ , has the tendency to _not_ knock. He would tell him he's welcome, anyway, and would ask if there's something on his mind or if he wanted to go at it with some friendly sparring or fight some waves in the HARM room. Steve would do a lot of things for him without question, and Tony wishes he were here so he could properly… thank him.

The last thought he has before he's blasting himself into space is that he _hopes_ he's doing the right thing. That Steve would be proud of all of them— _him_ —for taking AIM head-on in such a short period of time. Everything they do, they do because it hurt them, and it hurt the world, and no one gets away with that. The Avengers can fall apart, but they get back up again, anyway. That's what they are. They _are_ a team. A family. Sometimes dysfunctional, but it doesn't change the fact that they _do care._ They all do, just in their own ways.

Though, flying through a storm? A terrible idea. Thor has powered him up before with his lightning, but this is wild thunder and lighting, nothing like something so meticulously controlled by a God. There are variables here that are uncontrollable.

He's always liked being up in the sky, and he always did look up to the stars. Tony thinks that, sometime in the future, humankind will have to look toward outer space to continue living. He's not sure how far out that is, but he sure has a feeling that it's part of the future. They call him the _futurist_ for a reason.

At this point, he just prefers not to get shocked and to fall to his death, is all.

He doesn't, by some miracle. Instead, he just… nearly suffocates, first. The satellite has clearly been collecting dust itself. Barely any foot-traffic or, well, _any_ traffic, as far as he's concerned. Tony's almost petrified by the thought of being up here without finding anything of substantial use to go against AIM. He's afraid that so much of their endeavours will end up all for naught—

"— _Oh my god._ Cap!"

Nothing quite feels _real_ after that. It all feels like some fever dream, and no, he doesn't want to let go, a hug that he thought he'd never get again, but he can't, he thought he was _dead_ , or as _close_ to dead as possible and—

"Tony? Are you hugging me?"

_Shit. Shitshitshit—_

He answers almost too quickly. " _What?_ No. I just didn't want you to fall."

That's a lie.

Having Steve back means he can't lose him again. He _just got him back._ He won't. He _can't_ lose him. Tony won't let that happen this time. Won't be ten seconds too late. He's always said he'll have Steve's back, and ever since A-Day, he's always been convinced that he _failed_ to have his back.

Monica trying to intervene with the escape is one thing, but getting trapped in outer space with broken engines, alone with Steve, is another. Especially considering there's the most likely chance they'll just die together.

If only he could just wax poetic right now.

As the silence settles between them, Steve is rather nonchalant in the way he speaks, "Ah, at least it's a good view."

Logically, Steve is talking about the stars. The galaxy before them. It's nothing but them in endless space, but all Tony can think about the view of _Steve._ To see him again. Alive, breathing, relatively okay for the most part. _I'm sorry,_ he's thinking, because he couldn't save him again. It feels like another failure to add to this unsurmountable pile that seems to perpetually get larger every time he remembers he's royally fucked up in some way or another.

"That it is," Tony eventually says after catching his breath, reeling in the internal anger and disappointment. It seems that, no matter what, after _all_ that trouble, it still doesn't get to pay off. "Damn it..." He's occasionally glancing toward Steve, whose gaze is directed forward out the glass. "So close." He's whispering to himself for the most part, though he knows Steve can hear him with that super-soldier hearing all the same. Besides, being in the middle of space? Silence. Dead silence. Everything else is loud in comparison.

The next breath he lets out is heavy in his chest. Feels like his lungs are already filling up with water, that he's going to give out soon, and all he wants is to apologize, but he feels like apologies are a waste of breath if they're going to suffocate.

"Well, since we're gonna die anyway, you have any, I don't know…last confessions?"

Steve turns, and there's a hint of a half-smile brewing there, barely lit enough to notice, but Tony notices. "Your jokes, I just don't get 'em."

It's like normal again. Bantering. _I missed this. I missed you._ "I know. I read your diary," he retorts swiftly, and the chuckle it gets out of Steve is like music to his ears. Oh, how he's missed Steve's laughter, his dry humour and sarcasm. The world thinks he's pure, nothing but the golden boy picture that he's had to paint in his time, and sure, he is sometimes, but—

Now he's just staring, he knows he's _just staring_ , but he can't stop. He sees the intricacies, the way Steve's jaw curves, sharp and smooth all the same. Looks at the stubble he's grown—surprised there isn't more—and think about how his thumb could just stroke over the rough texture. The way the bit of light shines over his cheekbones and casts shadows over his clavicle and shoulder, how the light reflects out of the corner of his eye and— _fucking hell_ —he's just not sure when he'll find the courage to speak up. At this rate? He _won't_ have the chance to have courage at all. Instead, his eyes flicker between Steve and the view out before him.

Now the one thing that's left for him to ask—aside from the fact that he's got the biggest crush (it's not even a _crush_ , it's definitely something more) on Steve Rogers—picks at his mind. It's easier to ask this than it is to ask _'do you ~~like~~ love me?'_

"Why'd you smash the reactor, Cap?"

—

He's worried.

Very, very worried. He hasn't quite had a moment to sit down and talk to him, not that that would've been all that…productive, he supposes, given his inability to be emotionally articulate most of the time. Except, he still does worry.

 _You worry enough for the both of us._ Steve does worry enough for the both of them, though he feels as if he's not worrying about _himself_ enough right now. Hence Tony's worrying.

Their lives have always been moving from one disaster to the next—big or small—without much time to settle and catch their breaths. It's been an unusual change of pace as well, fighting AIM and Taskmaster's Wardogs goons, without Steve having his back. They've always had that under their belt going for them, picking each other up no matter the predicament. Yet now they're back at it, together again, and it feels just like old times.

( _"Winghead, watch your six."_

 _"I should say the same to you, Shellhead."_ )

In one second of quiet, which feels like it's difficult to get now with a helicarrier full of people from all over the place, he's beginning to feel that overwhelming urge of——— _stress._ Steve's back, and everyone's relieved, and now AIM has been dealt with for now, though the battle is never-ending given they didn't get to burn the damn corporation to the ground.

Now Tony, although not the man to usually follow plans, feels like he's now floating in the air without much of a thought as to what to do next. Yes, they keep targeting AIM and its followers, but what else is he to do? Should he start Stark Industries back up now? Is that even a feasible decision to make at a time like this? Should he just stick to going with the flow? Should he admit his feelings—

No, nope. That's not happening.

_Time's not limitless, Stark. What'll happen if he—or even me, I mean, yourself—disappears into thin air again? What then?_

Damn the devil in his head; or is that the saint?

Every time the sun sets, he remembers something else about Steve. Tonight, it's the way he's a natural born leader with charm, even though he has a feeling that Steve never quite _asked_ to be a leader. He's just good at it. Humble, too. Tony just isn't sure how someone like him exists in a world so cruel.

So how could he, someone filled to the brim with emotional turmoil, be any good for someone like Steve Rogers?

Well, at least that answers one thing: _that's_ the devil. As for the other…which voice is he going to listen to this time?

—

This time, he knocks before walking in.

"Hey—woah, bad time to drop in or…?"

Steve, who's polishing—cleaning?—off the photo of Peggy, chuckles and shakes his head. "No, no, of course not. You ah—you knocked this time, huh?"

He's never once doubted his loyalty and love for Peggy. If anything, Tony doesn't _blame_ him for falling in love with her back then. He once had wondered if jealousy was worth it, if Steve still loved her and didn't plan on moving on, but a while ago, or what feels like an absolute century ago, Steve had casually mentioned that he wasn't actually hung up on her as much as people _projected_ the thought that he was still stuck in the past. He'd made peace with the fact that she'd been his first love, but maybe, _maybe_ , not his last.

Tony doesn't shy away from a smile, because he knows exactly what Steve's referencing. "Yeah. You remember—"

"—Yeah. Yeah, I do. Feels like yesterday."

Shifting weight onto the back of his heels, he glances around. "Nothing's changed around here either. Still don't get why you have a _punching bag_ in your room—"

"It's not all about _appearances_ , Tony. You know this," he's interrupts, but it's not out of annoyance. No, it seems… it seems to be out of fondness, almost. Tony can't tell, though, as much as he wishes he could just read Steve's mind. "Not that I don't mind you dropping in, but I doubt you came here to ask about my training regiment———are _you_ okay, though?"

"I was going to ask you that, actually."

"I asked first."

"Shouldn't you treat your guest with some respect?"

"Ah, my room, my rules."

"Well, _technically_ the Chimera as a whole is half _my_ baby since I helped build her."

There's a moment of silent, though not remotely uncomfortable or stiff. Instead, both of them break into a chuckle and he swears, he really does just fall a little bit more in love with him all over again.

"Okay, fair play, Stark. I'm ah—a little bit slower than I'm used to, but…"

"You were in a coma for five years."

Steve's brows furrow and his chest and shoulders rise and fall for a deep breath. "Yeah. _That._ " Tony can't even begin to imagine what it feels like to lose another five years to the ice. He wishes it weren't the case, wishes he could rewind that time and give him his years back, but that's never how it works. "Could be a lot worse, really. I'm just glad to be back."

"Glad to have you back." He then clears his throat and—are his palms getting sweaty?—looks at Steve before eyes dart back to the photo of Peggy as Steve sets it down. He watches the way he wipes his own hands, wringing the towel around each finger. "You know I just…" The photo reminds him of something. Something he found out a few hours ago. "…I found out that the satellite you were in was under my name. Or, well…dear old Dad's name."

There's another pause, setting the towel down on the ledge before taking a few steps to round the corner of his bed. "Oh." Steve doesn't seem upset. Just…curious, really. "Howard."

All Tony can do is nod, and the information has been clawing at him. He can't help but feel _more_ guilty than he already is. "Yeah, look, I just—I know I'm not directly linked to that in a way, but I sorta am? Anyway, I should've known. It was Stark Industries property to begin with, and even with the company liquidation, I should've thought about looking into that earlier. The point is, I'm—jeez, you know I'm not good at this—sorry. I'm sorry." The way the words just come tumbling out of his mouth, letters and words rolling off his tongue faster than his brain can even process it.

He's never been the type to be _emotionally vulnerable._ Rawness, in any sense of the word when it came to things like feelings, were just outside of his arsenal. He could program and code and invent the newest damn clean energy source, but when it came to expressing how he felt? Immediate error in his code causing him to malfunction; and it's quite embarrassing, at that. It's always made him feel incredibly _incompetent_ at being a human being.

Five years of replaying the same scene in his head over and over can really drive a man insane. It's surprising that Tony is even here today with his head still attached to his body. "If I had _known_ —"

Steve's suddenly so much _closer_. Tony's blinking.

"You would have saved me earlier." Well, there goes him getting to finish his own sentence, and _God_ , there's something so soothing about the blue of Steve's eyes, he can't place his finger on why (perhaps it reminds him of the sky where he spends so much of his time up in). "I know, Tony. You don't have to blame yourself. I sure as hell don't blame you for anything. You did what you could at the time. I think that's more than what anyone could have asked for given what you were going through."

There he goes again. This is the thing about Steve, he's incredibly perceptive and _caring._ People don't give him enough credit, he swears, but then there's the times that Tony wishes Steve _weren't_ like this. That he couldn't just get one look at him and understand everything going on in that busy head of his. _Fuck,_ does he hope that the fast beat of his heart isn't something that's loud in Steve's ears as much as it is in Tony's.

"I know five years doesn't seem so long in the grand scheme of things, but I know it's been pretty long for you," Steve starts, and Tony is wondering where this is going. "But losing another five years of my life has sort of shed a little light on what I should've done a long time ago."

His heartbeat's getting louder, and he's holding his breath (and he doesn't even know he's holding his own breath). Tony asks, "What should you have done a long time ago?"

"Don't you _know?_ "

 _Don't I know?_ "Well, _no...?_ That's why I'm aski—"

It's right there, five steps into Steve's room, next to the punching bag he teases Steve for having, where his heart soars instead of sinking.

It's quick, the way the heat rises in his body, how it flushes his cheeks (he won't admit it, but it's visibly there), and how one second of standing there frozen like a deer in the headlights leads him to reciprocating a moment later, hands steadying himself by settling on his back, preventing him from melting into a puddle under the pressure of Steve's very _warmth_ and _gentleness._ He's tender and careful, a hand cupping his jaw and thumb brushing over the curve of his cheekbone, and it's everything Tony couldn't have even _imagined_.

Time, then, doesn't seem to pass for him. Not until Steve pulls away, and Tony's leaning his forehead up against Steve's and catching his breath, because that kiss certainly lasted _way longer_ than he could count in his own mind.

Neither of them utter a word.

_Please be real._

"I think I know now," Tony mutters to break the silence, and of course, Steve begins to laugh, and Tony feels the warmth rise in the pit of his stomach again hearing Steve's laughter. "And I uh—I feel the same, for the record. 'Cause we're definitely—I think we're on the same page. But you know, just in case, can you pinch me?"

Steve's smiling, he can just _feel_ it, even with his eyes closed. "Yeah? Alright, if you say so."

He's not actually expecting it, but he jumps a little and falls out of step from where he's standing, and this time his eyes have opened, but he can see and hear Steve's amusement and he can't quite find it in himself to be upset, because, really, he _did_ —

"You asked for it, Tony."

—ask for it. Regardless, Tony slaps the punching lightly back in his direction and breathes out a terribly unconvincing and non-threatening, "Jerk."

Of course, Steve easily side-steps the punching back and finds himself closer to Tony, fingers tugging him in by the belt buckle. "Guess I'm _your_ jerk."

Never once did he expect this turn of events. Of all things, of all people…but he can't complain, can he? It'll take time for Tony to forgive himself; he knows that much about himself. It's simply impossible for him to just _let it go_ , but as far as he's concerned, he's not alone, now. There's no need for a two-dollar beer and burnt sausages without hot-dog buns, sitting in a plastic chair outside of his RV staring up at the sky looking for answers all on his lonesome. The sky _was_ his answer at the very end of the day. He just needed a little help getting back up there.

Turns out, they all need a little bit of a helping hand some days.

Or you just need your shapeshifting-into-a-beast-friend-Avenger and an inhuman kid to show up at your door unprompted convincing you there's more dirt to dig up than expected.

**Author's Note:**

> it has been a century since i've written fic, but i hope i did alright lol. 
> 
> you can find me on twt or tumblr @ cptshellhead! 
> 
> kudos and comments are appreciated!!


End file.
